Sherlock Calendar One shots
by RebeccaB114
Summary: I'm doing one shot fan fics that correspond to each month's picture on the Sherlock calnedar. Each fic is unrealated to any of the others unless stated. It will be updated every month
1. Cold Coffee

'DAMN MY LEG!' John yelled out of frustration. 'I'm sorry Mrs Hudson, I shouldn't, it was wrong of me, I don't know-'

'It's fine John, it's been tough for all of us. Most of all you.' Mrs Hudson reassured him. 'Maybe you should try to find a job. With no flatmate, I understand its hard for you to pay the rent, but I can't afford to let you stay here for free any more. Not in times like this!'

John gazed around the flat that had become his home. Even a year on, the place still felt like Sherlock. John couldn't bring himself to move any of Sherlock's stuff. He didn't know what to do with it, and John liked pretend that Sherlock was still alive. The pain hadn't lessened after a year, if anything it had got worse. As if the stabbing in his heart was not enough, his psychosomatic limp had come back. One if the hardest things John had to do was dig his walking stick out of his cupboard. It was his constant reminder that there was no raven haired detective to come bursting in with delight at the triple homicides who dragged John out of his boring civilian life and threw him head first into the world of chasing criminals cabs through the back streets of London.

'John? Are you okay?' Mrs Hudson's concerned voice woke John from his daydream.

'Yeah, yeah I'm fine. I'll look for a job, maybe the new surgery near the station will need a doctor' John said but without much conviction in his voice.

'I know I'm not your housekeeper, but would you like a coffee? Just this once, mind.' Mrs Hudson asked.

'Cheers. That would be nice. Black, two sugars.' Without even realising it, John had started taking his coffee like Sherlock did. Every little thing people said or did reminded him of Sherlock. Mrs Hudson came in with coffee and John gave her a small nod of the head in thanks. She exited the room and left John on his own to think about Sherlock. That was all he ever did really. Greg used to ask him to go to the pub but after a string of refusals from John, he gave up asking.

As John's mind wandered, his eyes became heavy. He rarely slept because when he did he was plagued with the nightmare of Sherlock falling, falling, falling. John would run but he could never prevent the bone cracking crunch at the end.

He was startled by the front door slamming and footsteps coming up the stars. John was surprised that he hadn't heard his landlady's voice welcoming in the visitor. Strange, John thought, it's as if they have a key. The footsteps paused as the reached to top of the stairs, waiting before they entered the room.

'Who is it? Who are you?' Called out John.

'I'm sorry John' came the baritone reply; followed by the sight John longed to see more than anything. He didn't know what to do. All the breath was knocked out of him by the stabbing in his heart. He tried to run to Sherlock; to punch or kiss him, he wasn't sure, but he found himself unable to move.

'S-S-S-Sherlock? Is that really you?' John's brain eventually began to function normally

'It is me John, who else?'

'But I saw you fall. Your body lying broken on the pavement. They buried you. You're in a coffin'

'Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. I am standing here in the flat we once shared. Despite the improbability of my existence, it is the only logical answer.'

'I can't believe it Sherlock, it's really you. After all this time, but why now? Why make me think you're dead?'

'There was the complicated business of having to convince everyone I was dead. A whole new identity was necessary, though Mycroft did help me with that. It was crucial for a rather dangerous case I needed to solve. I couldn't include you I'm afraid. It was far too dangerous.'

John couldn't believe what he was hearing and the anger he'd felt for the last year finally hit him.

'You wanted to keep me out of danger? I was a solider! I could have helped you. Did you think for one second what this was doing to me? How much it hurt me?'

'John I'm so, so sorry' Sherlock began.

'Because saying sorry makes everything better doesn't it?' John retorted sarcastically.

He rose to feet as he found he wasn't stuck in seat any more Sherlock couldn't begin to understand what he'd been through. John's anger took over and he rushed towards Sherlock, all ready to punch those goddamn cheekbones. He brought his hand back to smack Sherlock with, but when he brought it forward it made no contact. Sherlock hasn't ducked or made any attempt to avoid the blow. He simply wasn't there. The sudden realisation hit John like he'd been punched himself. None of that had happened. It was all a dream. This was always the cruellest type of dream John had. The pain of the nightmares about Sherlock's death were nothing to compared to the pain that accompanied his realisation that Sherlock's return was only in his imagination.

John reached for his coffee but it had gone cold.


	2. The Day After the Night Before

"Come on Sherlock. Give me something, anything. You know you shouldn't be here." Lestrade was getting impatient with the lack of information Sherlock was giving him about the man lying dead in the disused warehouse. Sherlock couldn't really help the fact that alcohol he had consumed last night had muddled with his brain a little bit more than he had anticipated. To be fair, it was John who had insisted on the bottle of champagne to celebrate Sherlock cracking a particularly challenging case, which turned into the celebratory 2 bottles and before they knew it; 7 empty bottles of champagne soon littered the floor of 221b. Last night had become a bit of a blur but Sherlock could tell there was something important that he could not remember.

There had to be something that had made John act so, uptight with him all morning. This was more than just a hangover; he'd experienced John's hangover before and he'd never been like this.

But none of this was helping to solve who had beaten to death the homeless man who had made the warehouse his home. There was no apparent motive for the crime, yet it was the forth tramp to have been murdered in the last year.

Sherlock shook his head, trying to blow the cobwebs from his mind. As this failed, he turned to look at John for guidance.

"What's your prognosis, ?" Sherlock was beginning to feel that he had got to grips with mild joking, but John still wasn't in the mood.

"How am I supposed to know? I'm not the world best consulting detective am I?" John retorted, ever the master of sarcasm.  
"Okay guys, time for a lunch break. We'll carry on here after 1. Do not be late!" Lestrade called out to the team on the crime scene.

As the people who covered the warehouse floor dispersed off to find lunch, Sherlock saw a glimpse of John's head as it left the building to grab a sandwich from the subway around the corner. Soon, Sherlock was left alone to ponder what he had done to piss John off so much. It must have been something that happened last night while he was under the influence of copious amounts of alcohol, Sherlock mused.

He forced his mind back to the beginning of the night, when Lestrade rang him to congratulate him on the arrest of Abraham Mullins, whom Sherlock had correctly accused of being the man behind the various bombs and robberies across London. The police had been struggling on the case for 18 months before it was referred to Lestrade, who immediately contacted Sherlock.

John had insisted on celebrating and the drinks just kept on coming. Sherlock had always been in full control of the alcohol he consumed, but John kept egging him on to drink more and more, and before long, Sherlock had lost control of himself. One of his last memories of the evening was him and John singing drunkenly to ABBA arm around each other's shoulders. The rest became a bit of a blur except... Oh shit! That was what John was annoyed by. Oh god! Sherlock was contemplating running away from the warehouse right now; no wonder John had been off with him!

The lunch break appeared to be ending soon, as police officers were returning to the crime scene in twos or threes. Sherlock saw the top of John's head enter the building, deep in conversation with Lestrade. He was tempted to run off, but John raised his head to look at Sherlock. Lestrade went off to talk to Anderson about god knows what; so John made his way over to Sherlock. They stood side by side, Sherlock with his hands held behind his back; John fidgeting awkwardly beside him. At last John broke the tense silence.

"Look Sherlock, we need to talk about last night." John began.  
"No. It was all my fault and it was a mistake. I shouldn't have acted in the way I did." It was the closest to an apology that Sherlock could muster.  
"Was it really a mistake though Sherlock? It seemed to me that you were rather enjoying yourself."  
"The alcohol was rather… pleasant, but that's not what I was referring to John, and you know it. I was talking about the", Sherlock cleared his throat, "kiss."  
"I was perfectly aware that was what you were taking about Sherlock, and I will repeat what I said, you seemed to enjoy it." John replied with his ever so familiar gleam in his eye.  
"Are you flirting with me, John Hamish Watson?"  
"I'm couldn't be sure. Why don't you tell me?"  
Sherlock released a deep, hearty laugh.  
"I deduce that you are in fact replicating similar behaviour to when you are asking women out on a date." Sherlock joked back.  
"Then I guess I am flirting with you."

Sherlock just smiled at John. He started to speak multiple times before stopping himself. Oh just go for it Sherlock; for Christ's sake the man's just been flirting with you.

"In answer to your earlier statements John, I'm afraid last night is still quite hazy for me and I really can't remember how much I enjoyed our little kiss. I'm afraid we may to repeat that episode for me to reach an answer to your question."  
John face out up into a massive smile, "In that case, you'd better hurry up and find the killer, then we can get home and try to answer our little problem."


	3. Standing All Alone

**I'm happier about this months than last months. Post Reichenbach Sherlock style, enjoy!**

* * *

The wind was bitterly cold adding to the sub-zero temperatures that had spread across Britain in an unusually cold spring. Sherlock relished the cold, it numbed his fingers and he always hoped it would numb the dull ache in his heart, it never did. He turned his collar up against the cold. 'John always liked it when I had my coat like this' he mused. Any attempt at trying to remove the pain in his heart had become futile now. All thoughts he had about John increased his heart ache. It was a never ending cycle for Sherlock; the more he thought about John, the worse the pain became; and the worse the pain became, the more he realised how he missed John.

He missed everything about the man; he missed the home comforts of 221B and Mrs Hudson's home-made soup she would make for them when they'd been out on a case in the winter, despite her claims of not being their housekeeper. The thought of drinking the hot soup with John, talking about the case, sitting by the warm fire, made him realise just how cold and alone he really was. He had two days before his plane to Dusseldorf left. He had 3 more of Moriarty's men to catch, 2 of which were hopefully in Germany.

Sherlock had some time off and had gone out for a walk. His subconscious had taken to the beach where they found Alex Woodbridge, the security guard, dead in the case John had named 'The Great Game' on his blog. Sherlock liked walking around their old haunts. Although it had been over 2 years since that particular case had been solved, Sherlock felt as if he could feel John's presence on the empty Thames beach.

Sherlock's feet kept walking past the place where the crime scenes had been situated until he was standing on top of the pedestrian bridge that crossed the rushing river. When Sherlock realised where he was, he paused. 'Don't turn around, Sherlock' he told himself, ' it will only hurt you more'. For once he did not listen to his head and followed his heart. He turned his body and if he squinted into the distance he could see the block of flats that 221B was a part of. Sherlock imagined John sitting there, all alone, plagued by the image of Sherlock falling.

It was at that point and that point alone, that Sherlock wanted to be home, to have John hold him and tell him everything was okay. As a tear slipped from his eye, he turned away, knowing he would return to his John soon.


End file.
